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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29096472">like a blessing, like a knee in the chest</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/monsterq/pseuds/monsterq'>monsterq</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol as Plausible Deniability, Blood and Injury, Drunk Sex, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e15 The Benders, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sibling Incest</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:54:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,570</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29096472</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/monsterq/pseuds/monsterq</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Every time he blinks, he’s rocked with aftershocks of the feeling that chased him all day, the bottomless black panic, and then he looks at Sam, here and alive and touching him, and <em>relief</em> isn’t the right word for how it makes him feel. It’s too passive, too gentle. The thing Dean is feeling is something that fills every inch of him: his gut, his throat, his fingers, the space behind his eyes. It fizzes in his muscles, sparks in his blood. Dean wants to swallow Sam whole.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>151</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Banned Together Bingo 2020, Every Time We Touch: A First-Time Wincest Fest</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>like a blessing, like a knee in the chest</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Me, using a Siken quote to title a Wincest fic in 2021? It's more likely than you think.</p><p>Written for episode 1.15 for the First-Time Wincest Fest and for the prompt "incest" for my BTB free space.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>By the time Sam and Dean make it to their motel, the burn on Dean’s shoulder is throbbing. Sam sees him wince as he peels fabric out of the sticky mess and doesn’t waste a second getting all mother hen on him.</p><p>“Dude, quit it. I’m fine.” Dean pushes his grasping hands away and heads into the bathroom, snagging a bottle of whiskey along the way. He doesn’t bother with a glass, just takes a swig before setting it down by the sink and gingerly tugging off his shirts.</p><p>His not-so-little brother follows him in, shrinking the tiny room to the size of a matchbox. Even breathing would probably press them together, the bare skin of Dean’s back against Sam’s broad chest. Uncomfortably aware of the hovering, Dean ignores him and leans toward the mirror to check out the ugly, oozing burn. Gross.</p><p>Apparently Sam doesn’t like the look of it either. “Dean, you have to let me clean that.”</p><p>“I don’t <em>have to</em> do anything.” Sam’s fussing is making him prickly. One of them spent all day thinking the other was about to be fucking wasted, and it wasn’t Sam. “You know what, fine. If you want to play nurse so bad, knock yourself out.”</p><p>He straightens. Nice and slow so he doesn’t bump against Sam, whose heat he can still feel way too close along his back—but it turns out not to matter, because Sam takes his invitation, grabbing him by the shoulders and manhandling him out of the bathroom and into a chair. Dean snags the whiskey on the way. Another swallow stings his throat, and he remembers yelling, remembers blind rage and panic—<em>if you hurt my brother—</em></p><p>As Sam digs out supplies and fucks around with a lamp for direct lighting, Dean keeps drinking. He’s been sober for enough of this shitty day, thanks a lot.</p><p>When Sam sits down with a pair of tweezers, he takes the bottle out of Dean’s hand and puts it out of his reach. Dean grumbles but doesn’t fight him. The edges have already begun to soften. All right, so most of today has been crap. But he got Sammy back. He got him back, alive and whole, his warm knees now bracketing Dean’s as he sits in front of him, and that…</p><p>The first twinge of the tweezers digging in his wound makes him hiss—it’s blunter than it would be without the fuzzy layer of whiskey, but there’s no pretending it isn’t there. Then he closes his mouth tight and grits his teeth, the way he has during a thousand other posthunt patch-ups. But somehow, he can’t brace his mind the same way. Steadily, Sam pulls threads and fuzz from his shirt out of the wound, lips pursed and brows furrowed under his stupid floppy hair, and all of a sudden some kind of feeling punches Dean in the chest: the savage need to touch, to crush Sam into himself until they’re one being and no part of Sam can be stolen from him ever again.</p><p>He actually sucks in a breath, and Sam stares at him with his big dumb puppy eyes and says, “Dean? You okay?” like he thinks maybe Dean managed to get stabbed or burned again right here in the motel room.</p><p>“I’m fine, man, just watch what you’re doing with those tweezers.” The words are a little short, not nearly as casual as Dean would like. For fuck’s sake. “Hand me the Jack, will you?”</p><p>Sam gives a bitchy sigh but reaches over to wrap his long fingers around the neck of the bottle. Before he hands it to Dean, though, he takes a swig himself. “What?” he asks, catching Dean’s look. “I’m done poking you.” He sets the tweezers down on the table.</p><p>With a glass of water and a small towel, Sam keeps cleaning the burn, and Dean keeps drinking and not looking at Sam’s capable hands or focused face, because he still can’t fucking settle. Because every time he blinks, he’s rocked with aftershocks of the feeling that chased him all day, the bottomless black panic, and then he looks at Sam, here and alive and touching him, and <em>relief</em> isn’t the right word for how it makes him feel. It’s too passive, too gentle. The thing Dean is feeling is something that fills every inch of him: his gut, his throat, his fingers, the space behind his eyes. It fizzes in his muscles, sparks in his blood. Dean wants to swallow Sam whole.</p><p>Water trickles down his chest, making him twitch and shiver.</p><p>Eventually Sam breaks the silence as he tapes down a bandage. “All done. Maybe next time you get tied to a chair, don’t mouth off so much, huh?”</p><p>Dean shoots him an affronted look, distracted from freaky emo bullshit for at least a moment. He doesn’t even know where to start with this blatant hypocrisy. “First of all, you were the one who got yourself kidnapped.”</p><p>Sam pulls a face. “Don’t I know it.” Rolling his shoulders, he raises a hand to the back of his neck and kneads the muscle there. “They could’ve at least made those cages human size.”</p><p>“Yeah, but you’re not human size. Wouldn’t’ve done you any good.”</p><p>“Shut up.” Sam shoves at his shoulder—the uninjured one. “All I’m saying is, if those cages were bigger, maybe my neck wouldn’t be killing me.”</p><p>“Yeah, and maybe those freaks would’ve been killing you instead. How about we don’t fuck around with how things went down. You and me made it out. Plus that cop. Good enough.”</p><p>Sam acknowledges his point with a hum. He picks up the tape and rolls it between his long fingers. “Would’ve been weird, though, wouldn’t it? To be taken out by a bunch of humans. There’re worse ways to go, I guess. When I was a kid, I thought the demon might come back for me.”</p><p>As Dean tries not to show that gut punch on his face, Sam tilts his head to look around, then winces, hand rising again to rub his neck. “Fuck, I’m never getting stuck in a cage again.”</p><p>Later, it will occur to Dean that he had a number of choices at this point. For instance, he could have:</p><p>a) gotten up to change his clothes and find something to eat.</p><p>b) told Sam to do some stretches and quit whining.</p><p>c) rubbed the knots out of Sam’s neck himself. First aid, right? Same as Sam just did for him.</p><p>And in fact, when Dean reaches out, spurred by the roiling thing in his chest, he thinks he’s going for option C. He thinks it right up until the moment that he yanks Sam forward to catch his lips in a kiss.</p><p>Another thing that will occur to Dean later is that the booze might have been a mistake.</p><p>Sam’s mouth is soft, still, and tastes of whiskey. He’s not moving, and it’s not enough, not enough. Dean’s heart is pounding. Inside him, a voice is shrieking that he’s just ruined everything, that he’s about to lose Sam when he just got him back. Another voice demands more, and Dean digs his teeth into Sam’s pink bottom lip, then forces himself to let go. He drops his head onto Sam’s shoulder, the ridge of his collarbone digging into Dean’s forehead. He can feel Sam’s fast breath stirring his hair.</p><p>“Dean…” Sam’s voice is unsteady.</p><p>Reluctantly, Dean pulls away and meets his eyes. “Yeah?”</p><p>They stare at each other. The thing in Dean is thrashing, twisting, wanting. But if this is the end—if he’s fucked up—if Sam doesn’t—</p><p>Without breaking eye contact, Sam reaches for the whiskey and downs a generous swallow. Then he pulls Dean close and kisses him, and this time, it’s motion and heat and almost, almost enough.</p><p>*</p><p>In the middle of things, when they’re stripped of clothes and inhibitions—</p><p>—when they’ve gotten their hands and mouths on every inch of one another’s skin—</p><p>—when desperation like panic has bled into euphoria like grief—</p><p>—Dean breaks away from Sam to laugh. He doesn’t see it coming; it bubbles up from nowhere, giddy and bitter and half-hysterical. Sam asks, “What? What?” but Dean just shakes his head.</p><p>
  <em>Yeah, how about it’s not nice to marry your sister?</em>
</p><p>He ducks his head to drown the helpless giggles in Sam’s soft mouth.</p><p>*</p><p>Afterward, they shower, dress, and scarf some food, nearly silent, not quite looking at each other. Then Sam falls asleep, and Dean lies on the other bed and stares up at the ceiling.</p><p>They shouldn’t have done that. He knows they shouldn’t have done that. He’s always known. But if he could redo the evening, if he could change it…</p><p>Well, anyway, he can’t.</p><p>Dean turns onto his side and kicks down the scratchy wool blanket. The pillow is too hot under his cheek, and he flips it. Light from the parking lot filters through the curtains: the weak glow of a lamppost, the red flicker of a taillight.</p><p>As his eyelids grow heavy, he thinks that maybe this got it out of their system. Whatever <em>it</em> is.</p><p>Yeah, probably. A few hookups for each of them—with other people, he means—and they’ll be back to normal.</p><p>Sleep arrives just in time, saving him from the thought: <em>Right, ’cause we’ve always been so good at normal.</em></p>
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